I'm afraid you're not so enterprising a
journalist as some, Brett. But now, since you ask, you shall write
something--if you think it worth while."
This he said, as he said most things, with a cheery, chaffing good-nature
that would have been, perhaps, surprising to a stranger who thought of him
only as a grim and mysterious discoverer of secrets and crimes. Indeed,
the man had always as little of the aspect of the conventional detective
as may be imagined. Nobody could appear more cordial or less observant in
manner, although there was to be seen a certain sharpness of the
eye--which might, after all, only be the twinkle of good humor.
I _did_ think it worth while to write something of Martin Hewitt's
investigations, and a description of one of his adventures follows.
* * * * *
At the head of the first flight of a dingy staircase leading up from an
ever-open portal in a street by the Strand stood a door, the dusty
ground-glass upper panel of which carried in its center the single word
"Hewitt," while at its right-hand lower corner, in smaller letters,
"Clerk's Office" appeared.
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